by Antaeus Balevre
July 10, 1954 was the day I almost died. I was nine years old, five miles from home, and carrying more money than I had ever earned. It was also the day Calogero Vizzini, “Don Calò,” the Italian mob boss, died. I didn’t know him, but his death filled the bars with grieving wiseguys who wanted their shoes shined for his Sunday eulogy.
It was after 5PM, six hours of working my way through smoky Jersey City bars. That Saturday was a busy one. Forty shines at ten cents each, plus tips. The mob guys were trying to outdo each other and were very generous that day. One guy dropped a fiver on me. Counting the $3.00 I earned working at my uncle’s bar, it gave me a total of $24.40.
In 1954, that was equal to almost three days’ pay at minimum wage. It meant my father could buy new shoes for two of my brothers.
When I stepped out of Bruno’s, the July sun hit me like a slap. After hours in the dim bar, the brightness was blinding. I stayed still until my eyes adjusted. That was street smarts, the kind my mentor Nunzio was teaching me. My cousin’s hand-me-down shoes were too tight, and my body was dead tired, as I started the long walk home.
I’d walked half a mile when I spotted him.
A young man, taller and heavier than me, back then everyone was heavier than me. He was a block away, but I recognized “The Walk.” Nunzio had drilled the lesson into me. He was walking the way a predator moves when he’s already chosen you. One hand buried in his pocket. Head turning left and right, checking for witnesses. To the unwise, he looked like a guy out for a stroll. To me, he was a mugger hunting for a victim.
I did the math fast. No time to run back to Bruno’s, he’d reach me first. To my left was a fenced cemetery. No stores. No escape. My heart kicked into overdrive, but Nunzio had warned me about that too. The adrenaline sharpened everything, sight, sound, smell. I crossed the street toward the bank, hoping the guard or a passing cop would be a deterrent. I kept my head high, walked tall, and added a little swagger. Never show fear, Nunzio had said. Bad guys can smell it, and to them it’s like a chocoholic opening the wrapper of a Hershey bar.
The mugger wasn’t buying it.
He ran across the street and cut me off before I reached the bank.
“Give me your money, motherfucker,” he growled. His left hand was out. His right stayed in his pocket.
I stalled. I needed to see what was in that pocket, and I hoped the man walking up the sidewalk toward us would intervene. Instead, he crossed the street.
Asshole.
The mugger flipped open a straight razor. The steel edge flashed in the sun like it was winking at me. My blood went cold. I knew exactly what that blade could do, slice through skin and muscle like butter. But there was one advantage to me: it didn’t have a point so he couldn’t stab me with it. He’d have to pull his arm back to slash. That gave me seconds. Seconds were enough.
Nunzio’s voice filled my head, calm and steady.
“If you want to survive, remember what I taught you, Ragazzo.”
“Give me my money or I’ll cut you bad,” the mugger said.
I let my shoulders slump, the body language of defeat. “Okay,” I said, reaching into my pocket with my right hand.
A strange calm washed over me. I was about to use Nunzio’s trick for the first time. “Relax,” I said. “I’ll give you your money right away.” I emphasized your to soothe him.
His eyes locked on my hand.
I let him see the corner of a dollar bill under my thumb. Beneath it, hidden in my pocket, was the small cloth bag containing salt and cayenne pepper. As I reached for the dollar, my fingers scooped out a bunch of the mixture. That was the real surprise. The rest of my money was in a sock tucked inside my underwear.
He leaned in, greedy.
“Damn straight, that’s my money. Hurry up.”
“Here,” I said, and snapped my hand upward.
The salt and cayenne pepper hit him square in both eyes. He screamed instantly. The salt sucked the moisture out of his eyeballs, and the cayenne burned like acid. He clawed at his face with one hand and slashed blindly with the razor in the other.
I stepped back and to the right. My shoeshine box lined up perfectly with his left shin.
Nunzio’s voice again, clear as day:
“Never leave your opponent standing.”
I swung my arm like a pendulum, pulling the box back, then driving it forward with everything I had. The heavy wooden box, powered by adrenaline and fear, smashed into his shin. The steel hinge Nunzio had bolted to the front edge of the shoeshine box, did its job.
Crack!
The bone broke. Blood poured. The mugger dropped the razor and collapsed, screaming, clutching his leg where the bone pushed through the skin.
I sprinted to the bank and told the guard. An off-duty detective making a deposit ran out and cuffed the mugger. While everyone was distracted, I grabbed my dollar off the ground and slipped away.
I never walked through that area again. I never told my father either, he would’ve forbidden me from shining shoes, and we needed the money. But I couldn’t wait to tell Nunzio. I knew he’d be proud.
Antaeus is a Navy veteran and has written 24 books. Antaeus’s writing is known for its emotional resonance, surreal motifs, and compelling storytelling that explores resilience, betrayal, and human connection. Antaeus has published multiple series works across several genres, including the Q-Room, “Charlie’s Tavern,” “Brainfire,” and “The Prepared Citizen” series.
Featured image pexels-kevinbidwell-9511915
